‘What happened here?’ Lottie asked.
Natasha flicked the cigarette outside, then came in and closed the door. She faced Lottie, taunting her with a smirk.
‘None of your business,’ she said, folding her arms defiantly.
From behind her, Lottie heard Bernie say, ‘Just a family argument. Like she says, none of your business.’
‘We only want to have a chat,’ Boyd said.
Lottie had forgotten he was there. She turned to see him with his arm around Bernie Kelly’s trembling shoulders. The woman was clutching a black cardigan tight to her chest and her jeans were streaked with red sauce.
‘I really think you should leave,’ Bernie said. ‘I want to have a word with my daughter.’
‘Natasha,’ Lottie said, ‘sit down.’
‘I prefer to stand.’
‘I don’t care what went on between you and your mother. You can sort that out yourselves. I’m here to ask about your bicycle. What colour is it?’
‘My bike? I don’t know. It’s years since I used it.’
‘Is it black or white? Red or blue?’
‘Red. I think.’
Lottie looked up at Boyd, then to Bernie. ‘Do you have a serial number for it? On insurance documents maybe?’
Bernie shook her head.
Turning her attention back to Natasha, Lottie said, ‘The night Tessa Ball was murdered, can you tell me exactly what you and Emma did?’
‘Watched telly. Told you that already.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘That’s not my problem.’ She unfolded her arms and clenched her hands into fists by her sides.
Calling Boyd over, Lottie whispered in his ear. He headed out to the car, returning a few moments later with a large plastic evidence bag. He held it up.
‘Do you know who owns this?’
Natasha’s eyes widened, but she kept her lips sealed shut.
Bernie butted in, ‘You have one just like it, love.’
‘Maybe,’ Natasha said, her lips curving upwards. Slowly she drew her eyes back to Lottie. ‘Where’d you find it?’
‘Lorcan Brady’s house. Have you ever been there?’
‘I told you, he’s Emma’s boyfriend. She must be with him.’
‘No, she’s not. Lorcan is in hospital.’
‘Hospital?’ Bernie said. ‘I thought… Is he okay? What happened to him?’
‘Had a bit of an accident with a fire.’
‘Is he all right?’ Natasha asked, her teenage cockiness slipping.
‘Not really. No.’
‘Is he going to die?’ Bernie again.
‘I’m no doctor,’ Lottie said, ‘so I can’t answer that. Back to the hoodie. I need to determine ownership.’
Bernie studied it for a moment and said, ‘Emma was wearing Natasha’s clothes while she was here. If Lorcan’s in hospital, do you know where Emma is?’
‘I don’t know,’ Lottie admitted. ‘Do you know a Mick O’Dowd?’
Bernie shook her head. ‘No. I don’t think I recognise that name.’
Looking at the red mess decorating the kitchen, Lottie said, ‘Are you going to tell me what happened here?’
‘Just family stuff,’ Bernie said. ‘Isn’t that right, Natasha?’
Lottie watched as Natasha stood stock still, her face as unreadable as her mother’s. ‘Suppose so.’
‘If you remember anything about the hoodie or where you think Emma might be, let us know,’ Lottie said, and walked slowly behind Boyd as they left the house.
She wasn’t sure what she had witnessed here. But she was sure of one thing. There was no one better experienced than her to know how tumultuous the relationship could be between mothers and teenage children.
Forty-Nine
‘I want a transcript of O’Dowd’s statement.’ Lottie banged a bundle of files from one side of her desk to the other.
Boyd walked over and began straightening them. She slapped her hand down on top of his.
‘Stop!’ she said and looked up at him.
‘You stop,’ he said. ‘You’re driving yourself mad. And the rest of us along with you.’
‘We need to speak to Arthur Russell about Mick O’Dowd,’ she said.
Kirby walked into the office brandishing his notebook. ‘Spoke to Kitty Belfield again, after a feed of bacon and cabbage. Jaysus, it was mighty.’
‘He’s been released,’ Lynch said, raising her head from her computer.
‘Who?’ Lottie, Boyd and Kirby said together.
‘Arthur Russell,’ Lynch said. ‘Superintendent Corrigan said, quote, we “couldn’t pin a straight line on a seam to hold it together”, unquote. Said the Chief Superintendent told him we had nothing new other than circumstantial evidence, so he’s been released.’
‘Ah, for Christ’s sake!’ Lottie jumped up, knocking the files from her desk to the floor.
‘And we have to hand everything over to the drugs unit. Pronto. Superintendent’s word, not mine,’ Lynch said.
Lottie slapped the lid of the photocopier down and switched off its hum. On her way back to her desk, she knocked over a stack of box files.
‘Who do you think is going to sort that lot now?’ Boyd asked.
‘Sorry. I’ll do it later.’ She flopped back onto her chair and held her face in her hands.
Silence reigned in the office. Everyone afraid to breathe. All waiting for the next outburst.
‘I’m really sorry,’ Lottie said. She took a few deep breaths and looked up. ‘Okay, Kirby. Tell me about Kitty Belfield.’
Fifty
After getting rid of his solicitor, Arthur headed for Danny’s Bar. He needed a pint. He needed a feed. Hell, he only needed a pint.
As he walked down Main Street, his bare head getting clipped by useless umbrellas, the rain sheeted down and he realised the guards still had his coat. Or was it his coat? He’d have to go back to the digs and check. After he’d had his pint.
Outside the door to Danny’s, he stopped. Sirens and commotion sounded towards him from Friars Street. He stared through the rain. Two fire engines were parked haphazardly across the road, figures frantically unfurling hoses. Water was everywhere. The deluge from the storm must have caused the river that wended its way through the town to burst its banks.
A thought struck him about the night old Tessa was murdered. About his jacket. Shit, he thought, I have to find Emma.
Abandoning all thoughts of his much-needed pint, he ran back up the street.
Fifty-One
To pacify him, once he’d put the dog outside in the yard, Emma ate the dinner of mashed potatoes, beans and a fried egg. She tasted none of it, just let it slide into her tummy.
‘I’ve to check the heifers,’ O’Dowd said. ‘Will you wash up?’
She nodded.
‘Keep an eye on the cameras. Can’t be too careful, you know. With all that’s happened.’
She glanced at the small television in the corner, beside the refrigerator, with its split screens showing the gate, yard, barns and sheds. She cleared the table as he pulled on his wellington boots and went out the back door, calling for Mason.
She filled the sink with water, then, unable to find any washing-up liquid, scrubbed as best she could to get the grease off the pots, wishing she was back home, where she’d gladly stack the dishwasher for her mum without a row. Holding back a sob, she dried the dishes and put them in the cupboard. She looked at the pile of accounting books he’d stacked up on the centre of the table.